


In the Garden

by rosabelle



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29270244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosabelle/pseuds/rosabelle
Summary: Post-Briar's book, Rosethorn returns to her garden.
Relationships: Briar Moss & Dedicate Rosethorn
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	In the Garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexSeanchai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexSeanchai/gifts).



"Out," Rosethorn decrees. Her tongue, which has lolled tiredly in her mouth these weeks, sounds sharply once more.

"But—"

" _Out_ ," she repeats, and the boy retreats in a huff. He leaves a small potted rose tenderly on her workbench, as if she were a goddess in want of an altar. The bench and table are crowded with similar offerings from the other children, who peek in on her with regularity until Lark gently shoos them away.

The potted plants lift her spirits and their magic strengthens her, but outside, her real garden sings to her like a siren's song. It's waited for her, and now it is time for her to go to it.

She can sit unaided now, but she still leans heavily on Lark to walk to the privy and back. The short trip is frustratingly taxing. She is told the weariness will fade with time. Only time will tell.

"Boy!" she calls, knowing he hasn't strayed far. True to form, Briar appears instantly in her doorframe. What is a door, after all, to the boy who followed her into the very heart of death? Brave, foolish boy. "Quit skulking about and help me up."

Her speech comes slowly. He waits patiently for her to finish before he argues.

"But—Lark's gone off with Sandry to the weaving houses, and the girls are at lessons…"

"As _you_ should be." She motions to him. "Come now."

Still, he hesitates.

"Boy," she growls. "I've no more need of a nursemaid."

Sighing, he goes to her side. At her bidding, he brings her habit and helps her settle it over her nightclothes. Lark's love is woven into it, and that lifts her spirits further. Rosethorn smooths a shaky hand over the fabric, then grasps Briar's arms with both her hands. He pulls, and she stands.

They walk slowly, as steadily as she can go, out of the room to which she has been confined these past few weeks. She's pleased to see that the cottage is still clean; the children have spent so much time peering worriedly into her bedroom she feared that in her worry over Rosethorn, Lark had grown lax in seeing that they kept up with their chores. The only thing out of place is a mug someone has forgotten on the kitchen table. Rosethorn frowns at it as they pass, but doesn't stop. She hasn't the patience for that now.

They reach the door, and Rosethorn touches the handle. Briar tugs on her arm.

"It rained last night," he says. She heard it from her bed, a summer storm passing through. "Looks like to rain again."

"Afraid of wilting, are you?" she asks with a wry smile, and opens the door.

Outside, the clouds are indeed swollen with rain. Though it is overcast, it's a warm morning that will become warmer still. Rosethorn inhales the air, freshly washed by last night's rain, and lets the scent of wet earth fill her. From somewhere nearby, she hears the long, low rumble of thunder. 

"Take me to my garden."

This time, Briar doesn't fidget out of anxiety for her health. "I took care of it," he says. "Honest, I did."

She doesn't tell him that she knows. She can sense the plants even from her bed. They miss her, but they're content with his care, which he knows enough to be thankful for. Ill or not, she'll not suffer her garden to wither.

The first drops of rain fall as they leave the shadow of the cottage. Briar halts. Rosethorn tugs firmly on his arm. "Will the roses drown in a little rain?" she demands, and the boy acquiesces at last.

The grass rises to greet her, damp and cool beneath her bare feet.

Arm in arm Rosethorn and her boy walk slowly through the garden, a trail of muddy footprints left behind in their wake.


End file.
